by Clara Cody
Stephanie set the box down and pulled out a handful of stacked papers and pictures. There was little of interest until she reached the bottom. The rest of the papers dropped to the floor around her. She held the photo under the candlelight, certain that it couldn't be right. But the light didn't lie, and neither did the picture.
It was of a group of people standing in front of a small lake, a canoe lying beside them. It took a moment to recognize the other three people. A young Charles stood next to a young Mrs. Callowell, their eyes and smiles light and happy. His arm was around her waist, pulling her close to him. She had one arm around Charles's shoulders and her other snuggling wrapped around another boy's. The other boy was nearly unrecognizable. His face was so youthful, so innocent and joyous in that moment that she could barely believe it was the same person that was chained inside the room downstairs.
Behind the youngsters, standing proudly and smiling simply, was Stephanie's mother.
Chapter 27
Stephanie
STEPHANIE POUNDED ON the door as she clutched the picture in her other hand. She didn't care if she woke up the whole house. Footsteps raced to the door.
When the door didn't open, she pounded again.
"Shh," Charles hushed to the door. "Who is it?"
"Stephanie. Open the door."
The door opened a crack. "Stephanie? What are you doing here?"
Her face felt hot and she trembled with anger. She bit back the words she'd been planning since leaving the attic and held up the photo for Charles to see. "What is this?"
"Will you shut up?" he said, covering her mouth. Victor tossed around on the bed, whimpering. "And where did you get that?" Charles asked, nodding towards the photo she still held.
She tore her face away from his hand, batting him away. "No. You answer my questions this time. What the hell is this?" she asked, holding the photo in front of his face.
His eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face. As his face turned pale, he slumped his shoulders, falling into the chair by the door. He looked up at her sadly, his eyes full of remorse. "What does it matter?"
"This," she spat, pointing to the picture, "is my mother."
He snatched the picture from her hands, looking at it closely. His eyes darted from Stephanie to the photo and back again. He covered his mouth, looking like he was going to be sick. "I... but... how?"
She tore from his hands again. "Tell me! Who was she? Who are you?"
He pulled away from her as though she slapped him. "I'm Charles," he said. "She... your mother, Lizzie, was a maid here. Just a maid, I swear."
She clenched her jaw, glaring at him.
He held up his hands. "All right. She was a governess to Eloise. She was... nice. They'd never managed to keep a governess very long until then. Eloise really loved her." He looked at her, his face tight and quivering.
"And?"
He looked away. "What do you mean?"
"There's more. I can see it in your face."
"That's it."
"You're lying," she said, taking a step back.
He shook his head desperately, reaching for her hand.
She took a deep breath and pulled away from his touch. "And him," she asked, pointing to the other boy. "Who is he?"
"You know who," he said sadly. His eyes went to the door. "Victor," he whispered.
"Yes, but who is he?"
He took the picture in his hand and looked at it he seemed to be lost in thought a moment. "He was my best friend. They both were." His watery eyes looked up at Stephanie. "This was last summer we spent together. Before it all went wrong."
"What? What went wrong?"
"All of it. Everything just crumbled around us after...after your mother—"
"Died," Stephanie said, finishing his sentence for him.
That same thing had torn her own family apart. She remembered her father waking her up in the morning as the light was just barely starting to peek through the curtains. Your mother was attacked, her father had said. Robbed coming home one evening. She'd had no idea that she'd been coming home from Ripewood Manor.
Charles continued. "It was a great shock to all of us, but it shook Ellie to her core. You didn't know her then. She used to be...different. After your mother, she realized that the world was not accommodating as she thought. She said she didn't want to waste any more of her life lying."
Indeed, Stephanie found the image of a younger, carefree Mrs. Callowell hard to believe. If it hadn't been for the picture Charles held, she certainly never would have believed it.
"They were in love. It's so clear to see now, looking at the picture." His face turned downward, twisting into a grimace. "But I didn't see it."
"You loved her?" she asked, feeling her own eyes stung by hot tears.
He nodded, not taking his eyes from the picture. "Both of them. They were my family. You should've seen them; they were so terrified to tell me. You would have thought I was some sort of monster. I told them I was happy for them; they were so in love, it was impossible to say anything else. But the truth was, I was disappointed. And afraid."
"Of what?"
He threw himself into the chair across from the door. "I thought we had something. Of course, I knew we all had to grow up sometime, settle down with partners, have our own families, but we'd all be equal in that. We'd each have a partner outside of each other. I thought we'd be together forever. When they told me they were getting married, I realized how wrong I'd been. They'd had something special; they'd be together forever. They promised nothing would change. I tried to believe." He finally looked up at her. "I really did," he said, almost pleading with her to believe him.
"But things did change?"
Charles nodded, cradling his head in his hand as he gazed down at the picture, "I couldn't do it. It couldn't be with them knowing I was just another person on the periphery; a satellite circling their marriage. I didn't know how to not be with them either. They were all I had."
"So you left?"
Charles nodded.
"And what made you come back?"
His head flew up in his eyes met hers. He wiped away the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. "I have to get back. And so do you."
"Wait," she cried, pressing a hand against his chest. "How has the same man you claim to be your best friend come to be kept under lock and key? And don't tell me he's unwell or ill. It's more than that."
"He is sick."
"Stop lying to me, Charles!" She fell to her knees in front of him. "Why is he there? Did he kill my mother?"
His eyes went wide. "What? NO!" He leaped to his feet and she fell back, away from him. "It's not— you couldn't possibly understand, Stephanie."
She climbed to her feet, grasping his shoulders. "So tell me. I'm right here. Let me in!"
He pushed her away as he clambered past her. He looked back as he reached for the door. His eyes went to the photo lying on the floor between them.
"I can't," he whispered. In a moment he was gone, back inside his small, four-walled world, and she was alone, left staring at the closed door.
Eloise
A KNOCK CAME AT THE hidden door behind the bookcase. "You needn't bother knocking," she called. She glanced up as the door creaked open and saw the look on Charles' face. "Is everything all right?"
He turned his head, looking back toward the blackened staircase and then back to her. "I—no, Ellie."
The pit in her stomach rose to her throat. She had never seen him like this. His eyes were watery and red, his hair and clothes disheveled looking. "Tell me," she whispered, putting a gentle hand on his arm. "I'll fix it and—"
Charles grabbed her by the arms. "I-I can't stay here. This house... it's—"
She pushed his arms away and kept her voice even, but stern. "You can't leave, Charles. I need you here."
"You don't need me," he said, turning away from her. "Not anymore. You just feel safer having me around."
"That is not true," she said, desperation starting to settle
in her chest. "I need you. Victor needs you. Have you forgotten about him?" It was a low blow, but she had to hit him hard before he really started fighting her. "What if he gets out again? He could hurt Stephanie."
He looked pained and she hated herself for it but it made her hopeful. And hope lightened the weight a bit.
"That won't happen again. It was my fault. Hell, you might be safer with me gone."
"You can't be serious."
"I am serious," he yelled. "You don't know what it's like. It's like I'm rotting from the inside out."
"You think we don't all feel like that? Stephanie's only been here a few weeks and you can see it in her face."
"That's another reason. It needs to be over with. McGregor is taking his goddamn time. If we're ever going to finish this thing, so we can get on with our lives—"
"It's only going to be a little while longer," she said, caressing his arm.
"No," he said, pulling away. "I'm leaving," He brushed past. "I can't stay here."
"Why?"
"I'm damned if I stay. I'm going to tell her, Ellie. I'm going to tell Stephanie everything if I stay here another minute. I can't bear to look into her eyes and lie."
"Charles, you mustn't do that. What do you think will happen to Victor if people find out about what happened? They'll lock Victor up in an asylum! He'll live the rest of his days in a hell you and I could never imagine."
"Roberta," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
She practically caught her breath. She hadn't heard that name in years. "What?"
"Roberta is Stephanie's mother."
"My God." She had no proof of what her father had done, but she knew it all the same. She saw it in the way he grinned when he told her she wouldn't be coming back. She knew it when the town's sheriff came, hat in hand to tell her father that it was taken care of. Her stomach churned. "You didn't—?"
He shook his head, looking disgusted. "I can't stay here." He looked at her, pain etched across his face. "Please, don't hate me."
She reached out for him as he turned away from her. In her mind, she cried out, begging him to stay, making him a hundred promises she had no possibility of keeping. But she said nothing. She watched, helplessly as he lumbered toward the darkened doorway and up the stairs, away from her outstretched hands.
Chapter 28
Stephanie
EVERY TIME STEPHANIE closed her eyes, she saw her mother's face. The face in the picture she now kept under her pillow. The face that stared back at her from the mirror in the attic. The face that looked up at her from the garden below her window. She was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Why was her mother there? Was she another one of the missing maids? Or was she there for Stephanie? She wished she knew.
One thing she did know was that she couldn't stand here, polishing silverware one minute more. Her thoughts would drive her mad. She needed something to do. Anything. She thought of the key that still sat in her pocket.
"Feeling better yet?" Maggie asked.
"Better? Oh yes," she said, remembering her collapse the previous day. "Much better."
Megan's eyebrows were arched high as she looked Stephanie over. "I see," she said, skeptically.
Seeing an opportunity, Stephanie said, "I was thinking of taking a walk this afternoon. Perhaps some fresh air will do more good than resting."
"Suppose it couldn't hurt," Maggie said, turning back to her cooking.
"Charles mentioned that there was a lake somewhere nearby."
"Did he now?" came a voice from behind them. Mrs. Callowell stood in the open doorway, her expression stern and her eyes cold.
Stephanie's stomach tensed as Mrs. Callowell glided into the kitchen. Deep, dark circles hung beneath her eyes but otherwise, she looked as regal as ever.
Stephanie took a step back, lowering her head into a curtsy.
Maggie simply turned and nodded. "Morning, ma'am."
"There's a small, man-made lake behind the manor. If you can manage to finish your morning chores before lunch, you're welcome to go. Just follow the path through the woods. Mind the path though; poison ivy is rampant in this area."
"Yes, ma'am," Stephanie said, nodding her head forwards. "Thank you, ma'am."
Mr. Callowell turned her gaze to Maggie, looking very severe. Her jaw was tightly clenched until she released it to speak. "You needn't bother sending a meal for Charles."
Maggie looked to her, her mouth bobbing soundlessly for a moment. "I'll just set them aside then, and—"
"That won't be necessary. Charles has left us."
Stephanie's stomach dropped. She bit her lip, hardly noticing the coppery taste on her tongue. "What?" She braced herself on a table.
Mrs. Callowell turned towards her quickly. Her stare was fixed on Stephanie and deepening.
Stephanie stepped back under the strength of her gaze. She wanted to apologize for interrupting Mrs. Callowell, she wanted to ask why he left. Thoughts flew through her mind too quickly to process and she remained quiet, shrinking under Mrs. Callowell's stare.
"Yes," she said, slowly, observing Stephanie. "He left us in the night."
Stephanie looked to the floor and nodded. A bitter lump rose in her throat, and she was thankful to be already looking at her shoes. He didn't even say good-bye.
Maggie took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. "Will he come back?"
"I don't know. I'll be taking my meals in Mr. Callowell's room from now on." Without another word, she left the kitchen.
Maggie turned back to making breakfast, shaking her head.
Stephanie set the spoon she was polishing down on the wooden table. "He just left us?" she asked meekly.
Her back to Stephanie, Maggie slammed the heavy pan against the stove, and Stephanie gasped. Maggie took another steadying breath. "Seems so."
"He didn't say goodbye to anyone then?"
"Seems not."
Stephanie felt a guilty, sick sort of relief. At least she wasn't the only one he left without a word. "Why do you—"
"You should prepare the missus's breakfast before it gets cold," she said, throwing the pan and half-cooked bacon on the table.
She spun away from Stephanie and picked up the slop pale. More gracefully than Stephanie had ever seen her move, Maggie slipped through the back door and down the. Head down against the drizzle, she trotted through muck and puddles towards the pig pens.
Stephanie slipped out of the house quietly that morning. She'd done a poor job of cleaning the bedrooms–-something she'd normally be too ashamed to even consider–-but she finished with plenty of time to take a walk to the lake. It was doubtful that anyone would notice the sub-par work, anyway.
Scurrying down the middle of the back garden, she felt the heavy key bouncing in her pocket as she made her way around the thick maze, keeping her distance from the dark, hedged walls. In the daylight, from the outside, it looked harmless. But she knew how quickly "harmless" could turn on its head. She had received several lessons on that.
When she passed the maze an open field of tall grass spread before her. Wildflowers dotted the light green field. She breathed in the floral, fresh scent as she walked along, her fingers trailing the tips of the grass. The points of the blades tickled her palms and fingers as she walked, her hands skimming the top.
A caw rang through the air. Stephanie turned back towards the house. A crow sat, perched high on the top of the turret above the East Wing. Stephanie shivered, pulling her coat tight around her neck. The crow cawed again, unnaturally loud from such a distance.
She took a deep, fortifying breath. Folding her arms around herself, she continued towards the forest. Sticks cracked and broke underfoot as Stephanie walked along the dark path, entering deeper into the forest. The thick canopy overhead blocked out large chunks of light, creating wide shadows. Sunspots littered the brown forest floor and the smell of damp decay hung in the air.
Soon, she saw the dim light expanding down the path. The leaves underfoot grew drier and
sparser as the sun's light and warmth trickled between the trees.
Stephanie emerged from the forest and stood before a still, blue lake. Stephanie looked down on either side of the shore. About a hundred meters to her left stood a small, dark house in the forest. It was the same house that her mother had shown her in the fountain. Her locket laid cold and heavy under her hand. Stephanie closed her eyes, gripping it.
A cold wind blew in her face. She opened her eyes to face the house again. She knew she would get no answers standing there, wondering. She came to a small path that led to the house. It must've been ages since anyone had stepped foot on the path as it was thick with poison ivy. She bent over, pulling up her stockings up to her knee, re-tying the ribbon to hold them in place. She didn't want to risk poison ivy. Her legs itched instinctively but she resisted scratching. It's just in your mind, she told herself.
The windows were dark, reflecting her image back at her as she passed. Although it was small, it shared the same towering, oppressive air as the manor. It took all her strength to cross the front of the house to the door.
Breathing deeply in hopes of settling her nerves, she slipped the key from her pocket. Her hands shook as she fumbled to place the key within the lock. She pressed down the stiff doorknob, freeing the latch, and the door swung inward.
Her frame cast a long shadow across the dusty floor. The air inside was warm and dry, in contrast to the cool, autumn air outside. She stepped across the threshold, looking about the room. To the right sat a large cast-iron stove. Against the wall was a stack of old, dry firewood. The walls were decorated with bearskins, two mounted does' heads and a wolf's head. The other side of the house had a small, modest bed with a thin, yellowing mattress.
Stephanie went to the bed and looked under the pillow. Nothing. She lifted the thin mattress only to find withering, wooden planks underneath. She let the mattress drop back down. She stood and looked about the room.
If there were something worth hiding, where might I find it?
Her eyes landed on the stove across the room. The black cast-iron stove was cold despite the relative warmth in the room. A chill traveled up her arms as her fingers wrapped around the length of the handle. With a clang, the heavy iron door fell open. Stephanie covered her mouth, expecting a cloud of ash and dust to billow out. But nothing did. The ashes sat heavy, like oats in the center of the stove.
